What's In A Name?
by Lyra Ngalia
Summary: Being the only wizard in the phone book is hard enough without sharing a name with the world's most famous adolescent wizard.


**What's In A Name?**

I watch the ceiling fan wobble in its cycle above my head as I lean back in my chair, which creaks in loud protest at the movement. Last week, something in the fan had come loose, and grazed my forehead, leaving a nice purple calling card. I'd tried to get the building's owner to come fix it but, so far, no luck. Guess he still hasn't forgiven me for that elevator thing.

Wrenching my eyes away from the Spinning Wheel of Death on my ceiling, I check the clock. Half past four. Billy had said he would come by after work, and I hoped he had managed to get off early. The ceiling fan might offer a slight breeze and the threat of a head injury, but it was quickly losing the war against a Chicago summer. I've been in my office since nine, and the thought of going back to the dark (cool) cave I call my apartment is starting to look better and better.

A loud ring echoes through the room and I nearly fall out of my chair in surprise. Muttering a few choice words under my breath, I brace my feet, pulling myself back into a steady position, and reach for the phone. Clearing my throat, I put the receiver to my ear. "Hello, Dresden speaking."

There is a brief moment of silence on the other end, as if the caller isn't quite sure what to do with an answer, before a thin, reedy voice speaks. "Hello, is this the wizard?"

I felt my eyebrows rise at the sound of the voice. The person on the other end had to be a kid; the voice was too high for most adults and hesitant enough to make me think it was someone who was still regularly told not to talk to strangers. "Yes," I answer, trying to sound as benign and friendly as possible, "this is Harry Dresden the wizard."

Another pause, during which I hear a rap at my office door and look up to see Billy walk in. I gesture silently to the phone and he nods in response, closing the door behind him and taking a seat at the couch that made up the waiting area. "Mr. Wizard," the kid finally says. "I was hoping you could help me."

I frown and wonder at the hesitance in the kid's voice. "I'll do what I can," I said carefully. "What do you need help with, um…?"

"Karen," she supplies quickly. "And I've lost something, Mr. Wizard. I was hoping you could help me find it."

Finding things I can do, and it's hard to say no to a kid. Still, there are plenty of people in Chicago who think I'm a sham, and the last thing I need is for people to think I'm taking advantage of children. "Well Karen, I'll see what I can do. First though, do your parents know you're calling me?"

"No." Her answer was grudging, and I sigh silently at it. "But I found you in the phone book."

Well, I suppose that's why I advertise. Still, it couldn't hurt to listen to the kid. Someone with more business sense might say it's laying the groundwork for future customers, but my chivalrous streak just extends to kids. "Well, why don't you tell me what you've lost and I'll tell you if I can help you, Karen?"

"Well…" The way she drags it out makes me think she is fidgeting as she speaks, and I swallow the impatience that rises, the part of me that wants to just hang up, talk to Billy, and go home for the weekend. Which I will spend alone, probably brewing potions, unless my brother decides to drop by. On the other hand, I can hold off on the weekend until I finished talking to the kid.

"It's a letter, on heavy paper and written in emerald green ink," she finally said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "It was supposed to have gotten here last week, but it's still not here."

I blink and try my hardest to ignore the throbbing that starts in the back of my mind. "Um, miss, I think lost letters fall under the jurisdiction of the United States Postal Service," I said, hoping that she was going to let this go.

There's a pause, and hope soars for a brief second before it's sent crashing again by her innocently insistent voice. "No, Mr. Wizard. This letter was sent by magic!"

I take a long breath, suppressing the string of very inappropriate words that come to mind. "You've lost a magically delivered letter. Do you know who would have sent it?" I have to ask, even though I am _certain_ of the answer.

"The headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," comes the prompt answer I dread.

Hell's bells, I hate these calls. And I hate the fact that they're coming with more and more frequency. Maybe I should start counting how often I get them and send a bill over to that woman in England.

"Karen," I begin as gently as possible. This is always the tricky part. I can't tell these kids there's no such thing as magic; I'm living proof of _that_ big fat lie. On the other hand, if I make an excuse about the letter getting lost or telling them they're not magical, they're just going to call me back in a week. That or their parents come knocking to accuse me of coercing their children into devil worship.

"Karen," I try again. I'm stalling, my mind racing for an answer that's not going to make the kid cry and not going to end up with her calling my office every day for the next two weeks. "Hogwarts is a school for English magicians." That's something, but I feel like it's a flimsy excuse for a determined eleven year-old to swallow. I can hear her take a breath to argue, so I know she thinks so too, and I bull on through. "Besides, that woman got some facts wrong. Potential for magical talent usually doesn't manifest until around fifteen or sixteen years old. If you begin to experience inexplicable phenomenon in four or five years, I'll be happy to help you understand them, alright?"

She sounds surprised when she speaks again, though I can hear a smile in her voice. "I see. Thank you, Mr. Wi—Mr. Dresden," she said before hanging up.

I stare at the now-silent phone in my hand before dropping it back onto its cradle. It takes a couple of seconds for me to recognize the sound of Billy snickering over the sound of the ceiling fan. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, contemplating a couple of strong words for British authors of children's books. "Shut up, Billy," I finally say, sitting back up.

Billy's face is unrepentant when I open my eyes to find him standing in front of my desk. "Have any of them called you 'Mr. Potter' yet?" he asks. "Or asked you how your last year at Hogwarts went?"

"Shut _up_, Billy." I'm growling by now. Unfortunately, Billy's known me long enough to recognize the difference between 'harmless annoyed Harry' and 'about to blow up the building Harry' to ignore the growl. "Why couldn't that woman have picked a different name? Why'd she have to call the stupid kid Harry?"

Billy is still grinning as he takes a seat in the chair across from me. "You should just read the books, Harry," he said. "I think you two have a lot in common." He's trying (and failing) to rein in the absolute _glee_ on his face, and I idly wonder if I can hex the ceiling fan to give him a good hit on the head. Knowing me, it'll probably miss Billy and get me instead.

"You know, those calls were funny back when I was getting them once, maybe twice a year. But this is the third one this month. What the hell is up with that?" I ask, not expecting any answers.

"The last book is coming out in a month, Harry," Billy informs me. "If you paid any attention to stuff that isn't actively trying to kill you, you'd realize the entire _world_ is dying to know what happens to Harry Potter. You just have the bad luck of being the only wizard in the phone book, _and_ to have the name Harry."

I growl again, though it's defeated frustration at this point. "That's it. I am changing my name. And I'm moving to Antarctica."


End file.
